Sunday, June 11, 2006


Brutal honesty? Brutally honest?

Assalamualaikum wrh. wbt.

The funniest thing happened today. As I was reading up for my Business final coming up soon, I switched on the telly, and found a World Cup documentary on the international football legend that was Uruguay. It was fascinating to see an entire nation – or maybe it was the entire Latin American region – get so swept up by a mere sport. It was as if football meant everything to them. An Uruguayan player in the 1930’s even took his life, rather than get the boot (get the boot, get it? J) from one of the two main teams in the national league, Penarol. It had developed into a rich fervour; a doctrine.

I guess, some people will fill in that empty void they feel in their hearts with anything. Even with something as trivial as kicking around a lump of processed cork and rubber.

But that is not the point I was trying to make in the first place. And by the way, don’t get me wrong. I love watching football (note the verb used). It’s one of the few sports whose rules I actually understand, or have a basic understanding of. It’s just that I no longer believe in getting caught in the excitement or extreme emotion most footie fans feel whenever the World Cup, EPL or FA season comes around. Life is too short to be spent on trivial matters. So I am not as obsessive over football as I was four years back. Although I still stand by the fact that it is the most beautiful game in the world. And I’m basing my opinion on the way it is played, rather than the players themselves (although yes, some deserve special mention for being that rare marketing goldmine: being blessed by God with both raw talent and beautiful bone structure).

The point I am trying to make, however, is something that happened as the documentary focused on the future of Uruguayan futbol. It showed footage of what the locals called the ‘baby football league’, which consisted of little boys as young as five, all decked out in little jerseys, playing with rigour and passion. As I watched those little adorable pintos tackle the ball with grace, bless themselves or cried as goals went through (in the case of goalies) and even faked injuries, I found that my eyes were tearing up, and I was getting all choked up.

It caught me by surprise. I mean, could it have possibly been the maternal streak waiting to emerge from within me? Was it because I missed my little cousins, nieces and nephews so much, as I’ve listened to stories of their antics throughout the month (it is the school holidays aka kahwin season in Malaysia)?

And then, I realized that I was crying because, as visibly suppressed as it has been this past month, I am terribly homesick. Watching docus on the World Cup reminded me of how I picked up my respect and love for the game: because my father loved it. That’s the real, honest reason. He’s the reason I even gave watching football a go. He’s the reason I supported Arsenal FC during their winning streak in 2003, and even made him get me a Thierry Henry jersey from Petaling Street. This year’s World Cup doesn’t thrill me as much, because Papa’s not here to watch it with me.

When I wake up in the mornings, I keep thinking that back home, it is two hours earlier than here. That my family is probably going out for breakfast. Oh, how I miss Malaysian food. I can’t even make a good curry without screwing something up. I want to be able to talk to my parents without having to punch a whole bunch of numbers from an IDD card.

I want to balik kampong and get into spats with my cousins, young and old. I want to meet my new nieces. I want to go on outings with my parents, and to be able to tease my brother, and have long chats in the car with Papa as he travels around KL for business meets, and to be able to follow my Mama to her classes at the mosque, and spend time with the aunties from her usrah groups.

It’s embarrassing, how hard I’m crying as I write this.

The truth is, I miss home so very much. And I would give almost anything (material) up for finals to be over, and for me to have a ticket home in my hands.

I have so many stories to tell my parents, and so many images of Melbourne to share with them, and hour-long chats over 1400 kilometres just doesn’t cut it.

I chat with people in Malaysia, and it irritates me when they seem to think that the grass is always greener on the other side. Even with all of my homeland’s flaws, it still is and will always be home. They don’t think that they will miss anything much when they get the chance to study abroad.

Are they ever wrong.

It’s odd. I wasn’t this homesick when I first came here. But now. Now.

I don’t even know why.

It’s not as if things are bad here. Things are improving, actually. I actually understand where and how I fit here. I have routine, somewhat. I can find my way around the city, pretty much. I have friends, both old and many surprisingly new ones. I have found many answers to all of my questions. I have a support system, and a huge one at that. I have picked up hints of the local accent (but it only ever happens when I’m talking to locals whose accent is too thick to manoeuvre around), although I still cannot bring myself to say, ‘no worries, mate’.

And it’s only been four months.

And then, a feeling of overwhelming guilt comes over me. As much as I live here, this world is not where I should lay down my roots. It’s not where I am meant to feel I belong. My real destination – my real homeland – is and shall always ever be the seven heavens above. That should be where my loyalty lies the most. That should be where I long to be. Eternity should be my aim and my ardent hope.

I still love this world far too much, until something as trivial as distance can wire me up so.

So now, I remind myself that the love I feel here is but a fraction of Allah’s love for me. The loyalty and love I feel for my home on this here earth is but a mere glimpse of the love I will feel for my Eternal Home. Alhamdulillah, Allah gave me what I had asked for all those months ago, in my little room in Malaysia – to be given the chance to travel this earth, and no longer feel like I belong in one place, but for me to feel that the earth I tread on is merely a stepping stone for something far greater, far more beautiful, ahead.

In the words of Ernesto Guevara, ever onward! There is no turning back.

Wassalamu'alaikum.

this has been a rant by Syazwina Saw at 4:32 pm

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